


I Will Give You My All

by PositivePumpkin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, And More Fluff, Collars, Companion Piece, Fluff, Master/Slave, Other, Sort Of, not really - Freeform, probably the sweetest thing i've actually written and posted so far, swear its just sweet man shaped beings being sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 03:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20419499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivePumpkin/pseuds/PositivePumpkin
Summary: In ancient Rome, red hair was prized. Crowley finds this annoying at best. Aziraphale uses this as an opportunity to give the demon something precious.





	I Will Give You My All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/gifts), [Kazeetease](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetease/gifts), [JackOfPanTrades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfPanTrades/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Collar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20188816) by [JackOfPanTrades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfPanTrades/pseuds/JackOfPanTrades), [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/pseuds/Jathis), [PositivePumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivePumpkin/pseuds/PositivePumpkin). 

> This is a companion piece to Collar by Jathis.

Crowley loved having long hair. It might be vain, but he thought the riot of red curls was quite fetching. He liked to play with the length and style, sometimes allow the local children to put braids in his hair. He never really thought he’d resent having these beautiful bright red waves.

He was walking down the street, minding his own damned business. A tug at his hair had him turning around, just short of spitting venom, as yet another person tried to take a lock from him. He’d had a long day and he couldn’t stand dealing with it once more. A snap. A miracle, frivolous though it may be, to make sure he wasn’t impeded by greedy humans wanting him or his hair.

He made his way to the apartment he was staying in and tried his absolute hardest to dye his hair. Nothing would stick. He tried lightening it to blonde or white, but it just washed right out. He tried to darken his hair, even blacken it, but the same, all dye just dripped off his hair like water. He hissed angrily and contemplated the blade he’d conjured to cut his hair.

But no, Crowley couldn’t. Didn’t want to. He wasn’t going to let humans dictate what he was to do with his form. No, he was going to dress up, go out, and have some fun. Maybe even knock out some work while he was at it. He dolled himself up, wearing the sultriest clothing he could conjure, made sure his hair was lush and vibrant full of volume. Just to spite the humans that couldn’t have what he had.

It turned out to be a grand mistake.

He showed up to one of Caligula’s parties, miraculously having been invited of course. While the festivities weren’t his cup of tea, he did enjoy the wine. The longer he hung around though, the more he realized that Caligula really didn’t need any tempting to be evil. He was contemplating getting out of the party when one of the guards accosted him.

A strong hand was in his hair, dragging him towards the centre of the party, and the owner of said hand was hollering, asking if anyone had lost their slave. And that was enough. With an angry snap he was out of there and on his way back to his room. Next thing he knows he’s sitting on the floor with locks of red hair strewn about around him and his hair is as short as he could get it. Frustration sat ugly in his throat. He might’ve cried if he’d had the tear ducts, anger and mortification heavy in the space where tears would form if they could. And he could really use a drink.

Of course, he ran into Aziraphale at the bar, and of course the little angel that he was, would try to cheer him up. Which led to oysters and a private room, where, over far too much alcohol for a mortal, he’d confessed his latest problem.

“It’s bloody annoying!” He hollered, swinging his cup around, liquid sloshing dangerously but knowing better than to spill. “Can’t even walk down the street without… without… wankers just walking up and trying to snip a lock or thinking I’m some runaway slave.”

“Oh, dear, that is dreadful,” Aziraphale slurred, pouring more wine into his and Crowley’s cups. “Not a fan of the erm… owning people thing. People aren’t meant to be owned. Wasn’t one of your… machinations, was it?”

Crowley sputtered indignantly, “Of course not! No, humans thought that up all themselves! Quite horrifically creative, them.” He took a long swig, downing the wine in one inhuman gulp. He was doing that slow wobble that he sometimes did, looking very much like a swaying snake preparing to strike when he turned his eyes back on Aziraphale.

“Well, it truly is a shame my dear, I rather liked your hair.” Aziraphale admitted, before taking a much more reserved sip. The two eventually go back to talking about whatever they usually talked about. After some time chatting the two eventually sobered up and went to walk around the city, taking the long way to the angel’s home, still talking animatedly as they went.

They were stopped no less than three times by people asking Aziraphale if he’d be willing to sell Crowley. Would he sell them his hair once it grew out? Where was his slave collar? How dare he walk alongside his master? How could he let a slave speak to him as if they were equals? Aziraphale could see then, just how annoying it must’ve been for Crowley on his own. With that in mind, after he said his goodbyes to Crowley, he decided to commission a special gift for his dear friend.

He made sure it was suitably lovely: a wavy golden snake that connected by biting its tail, where a tag hung inscribed with a loving message. He wasn’t sure the gift would be well received, but hopefully this would at least get people off his back.

It really did look lovely on that slim neck. And, it did have the desired effect, people saw the collar and stopped harassing Crowley. Occasionally they still asked Aziraphale if he was willing to sell, but naturally the answer was always a stern no and for the more obstinate, a run of bad luck as divine punishment for wickedness. Afterall, he didn’t _actually_ own Crowley, it was just for the sake of the demon. Really.

For the rest of their time in Rome, every time he saw Crowley, he was wearing the collar. While gold isn’t really a colour the demon would pick out for himself, it did look quite good on him. Which is why it was such a shame when he stopped wearing it. Of course, Crowley was always changing with the times, but even then Aziraphale missed that flash of gold on his neck.

It came as quite the surprise then, millennia later, after the Armageddon’t-pass-go-don’t-collect-200£ when he saw the collar again.

Aziraphale had taken to stopping by Crowley’s flat on occasion, usually to invite him out to eat or to feed the ducks at St. James. Ever since he’d been invited once, he hadn’t thought to announce his visits, after all the demon never bothered to announce when he’d be visiting the shop. He had manners though, so of course he knocked.

Crowley answered the door shortly after, looking quite flustered. His eyes were obscured by those infernal glasses, but he could still see flushed cheeks as he sputtered out, “Angel? What’re you doing here? Is everything alright?”

“Of course, my dear. I just thought I’d visit,” Aziraphale said primly, before Crowley let him in. There was a couch that seemed new in the living room. Curious, but not immediately worth thinking about. Perhaps he was trying to make the dreary place homier?

“Have a seat, I’ll get you some tea,” Crowley said, gesturing to the new couch, before walking to his kitchenette. Aziraphale sat down, immediately noticing that something wasn’t right. He adjusted his seat on the couch, but there was definitely something under the cushion. He lifted it up and there it was: a familiar collar. The very same collar he gifted to Crowley in Rome. He picked it up and examined it. It was meticulously cared for, recently polished from the looks of it. Why ever was it under the cushion?

“Crowley?” His voice wobbled, emotions choking him as he traced the tooled scales on this ancient gift. Crowley came back around, wondering at what could be bothering the angel. When he saw the collar, he flustered, face red with embarrassment, spine unnaturally straight for the snake of Eden. He blustered and sputtered, trying to come up with some excuse, anything to save face, but before he could Aziraphale softly asked, “you kept it? After all this time? I never saw you wear it again.”

“Of course, I did, angel,” Crowley said indignantly, startled into responding honestly. But then, he never could lie to him. He rubbed a hand over his face, moving his glasses out of the way as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was… it was the first gift I’d ever gotten. First, I’d gotten from you too,” the demon murmured, determined to not look at his angel, lest he see him unguarded.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered as if the breath had been sucked straight out of his lungs by the admission. Crowley looked up, startled at how close the angel was, less than a meter between them now. The collar was still in Aziraphale’s hands, being gently unclasped and held up, a slight blush beginning to form on the angel’s sweet, round cheeks when he hesitatingly asked, “may I? I always thought it was quite attractive on you.”

“Course,” Crowley choked, strangely hoarse in the face of his angel’s confession. He offered his throat, a display of vulnerability so unfamiliar, but so much sweeter for it. The metal on his neck, warmed by angelic hands lovingly examining the collar, settled something deep in Crowley. He knew, deeply understood that Aziraphale did not _own _him, but this gift, this ancient necklace, choker, collar, was an expression of love. Love the angel could not admit for the longest time. But now, now surely? Surely this was okay. He could wear this expression of love on his neck.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale’s warm, plush lips moved against the shell of his ear, causing a shiver to roll through the demon. Without meaning to lithe fingers gripped the lapels of the angel’s jacket, no doubt wrinkling the old, well-loved material. Not that either being cared at the moment. Aziraphale pressed gentle kisses along Crowley’s jawline, then down his bared throat, pausing briefly at his Adam’s apple. He caressed the head of the snake on the collar with his lips, gently whispering a prayer into the metal, not one that would hurt his dear boy of course, but would warm him with his love.


End file.
